Kiss Shot
by Cicatrick
Summary: Han/Leia. AU - NHI Universe. Han's lonely on his twenty-fifth birthday. Leia's got other plans.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: Hey, you all know the supremely talented Erin Darroch. She's not only a brilliant writer but an invaluable friend and support, and I hear she likes Han Solo playing pool. ;) So this is for her. Sorry it turned into whatever this is and turned out so long, my friend, but...yeah. I adore you. You're a treasure!

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

July 4, 1957. Rolling his eyes at himself, Han Solo waded into Alder Lake again. It was a good day for it at least, real hot. He enjoyed the sunlight on his bare back. What Han liked a whole lot less was the feeling of wet denim, heavy and clinging to his lower half. Part of Han remained sure the Rogues were putting him on, that they were all gonna jump out from behind the trees and laugh.

He was leaving tomorrow on a sales trip with Doc. Han knew a guy didn't wear his coverall to meet prospective clients, but it wasn't a suit and tie gig, either. And yesterday Cunliffe, Doc's oily top salesman, had pointed out that the military honor represented by Han's bloodstripes could help them swing deals with other vets. _Shit._ Somehow Han kept the scowl from his face. Cunliffe, the son of some Mantell alderman, was Chewie's age but not drafted like Han and Chewie, that was for sure. _Nix to_ _**that**_ **.**

So yesterday afternoon, adjusting a shelf in Chewie's kitchen, Han asked Wedge Antilles where to buy blue jeans. Chewie closed the diner early to leave for a visit with his family in Washington State, and the freed Rogues took Han to the workwear shop down the street where they got theirs. The salesclerk sized Han at a glance, found Levi's long enough for his legs but otherwise Han thought they fit weird: close but stiff, the denim almost like fine-grade sandpaper. The button fly so rigid and unyielding it pinched even his calloused fingertips. When Han came out of the changing booth he'd been expecting the Rogues to crack up at his expense.

"I dunno," Han began. "They're kinda—"

Nah, Kes Dameron said. They were fine: 501s fit like that before they were broken in. All Han had to do was get in a tub and soak them through, then wear them all day.

"I...gotta wear wet pants." Han repeated. "All day."

Shifting his lime sucker from the inside of one cheek to the other—he was trying to quit smoking, Shara said it made Poe cough—Kes nodded.

"You're a father now, Dameron." Han hitched a thumb at Wes Janson. "Leave the clownin' to this guy, huh?"

Janson, newly single, noticed the cute salesgirl was eyeing the tall, tanned man frowning into the full-length mirror. "Hey, Kes. _Let_ Solo look like a goof." Janson grinned around a rubbery bubble of chewing gum. _Pop._ "Leave a chance for everyone else."

"Solo." Wedge looked grave and stringent, like he was inducting Han into some religion. "You ever soak slats?"

Han shrugged his assent. Sure, he'd done bentwood work.

"So, it's like that." Wedge said. "Wet jeans fit your line. Get 'em wet, let 'em dry out a little, still on. Do it again." You had to do this repeatedly, eight hours at least—Wedge nodded at Han's incredulous face—then take them off and dry them with heat. After that, the cloth fit you for good. You could tell the guys who didn't bother with this, Wedge warned as though of an ancient curse: their jeans hung all wrong, boxy in some places, baggy in...others. In cheerful illustration of this critical fit location, Janson booted the red tab affixed to Kes' back pocket.

"I gotta bury the damn things at a crossroads, too?" But as Han groused he noticed that the Rogues' jeans _did_ look fitted, faded and flexible enough, not at all the coarse texture of these brand-new ones. What the hell: he'd give it a shot. But there was no way, _ever,_ Han vowed to himself, he'd grease his hair into that ducktail bit.

Now, today, the holiday, seemed a good time to try this insane greaser prescription. So when Leia took Millie into New Hope to run errands, Han stayed home, following the Rogues' directions. Well, mostly. The Rogues had said to get in the tub, but Han figured, why would he do that on a blazing summer day? So here he was: walking, for the fifth time, into the lake.

When he left the water Han didn't bother with the tree stumps pulled up to the firepit to act as seats. He sat shirtless in the pebbled sand, knees drawn up under his elbows, wearing the vintage aviator sunglasses Leia gave him when he began flying lessons. Feeling his wet skin tighten in the heat, Han ran his fingers up the shorn back of his neck. Willa Calrissian had cut his hair in return for his helping to gut old suites in that apartment block she and Lando bought after they unloaded Cloud City (Lando said he couldn't stand the sight of the bar anymore, so he sold it. Han was amused that his old friend had made a small fortune—this mixture of decency and profit acumen was pure Lando). Han wasn't yet used to his hair short. Not _short_ -short, not bristles—Han's hair still ruffled, a little, in today's rare breeze, but it definitely revealed the shape of his head. Leia said he looked handsome, and that was good: Han wasn't vain in the way of, say...Lando, but he _did_ want his girl to dig him. Anyway, Han couldn't let his hair stay scruffy if he was going on client trips with Doc.

Sales! Back-slaps, flattery, jokes: the whole routine made Han itch. Cunliffe had once said he'd shill his own wife for a shipping contract, and Han still wasn't sure he was kidding. It was Cunliffe who usually went on sales trips, but Doc had unexpectedly asked Han along on this one with them, and Han loved flying so much, so _much_ that he didn't want to give his boss reason to doubt his commitment. Leia knew that if Han took on sales work they'd spend time apart and she supported him nonetheless, but Han had simply refused to consider the long-term prospects. He'd avoided even thinking of _this_ trip. Now, though, it was upon him: tomorrow began a full week in Eisley, a small, bleak city three hours away. Sales meetings scheduled every day, opportunities to watch Cunliffe stretch his glibness over six-beer lunches. Han grimaced. If he did badly with sales, he faced potential flightlessness. If he did _well..._ well, he'd get sent out more, which meant increased Leialessness.

No, not her, never that. There had to be another—

His jeans hadn't dried much but Han stood and walked back into the lake. This time he waded farther, up to the shoulders, ducking under to cool his head. The water was silky but he guessed swimming in jeans was a drag in every sense. So out Han went, saturated denim tugging at each long step. It was too hot to go after the hard exercise he craved; he paced awhile along the lakefront, skipping flat stones. Finally he dropped onto a chaise, bent an elbow behind his head, drummed his fingers on his abdomen. This was one of the rare times (bank line-ups were another) he wished he was a serious reader, like Leia, envying how she could be transported. He didn't want to sit here chewing over his own thoughts, or letting them chew at him.

Instead Han chewed his lower lip. He could go into his workshop for awhile, use the garden hose when the jeans dried. With Leia's blessing, even horror that he'd asked her— _my God, of course, you don't have to—Han! don't you know it's all_ _ **ours?**_ —he'd spent from late winter to early summer fixing the workshop up. There was some rot, but Han polished most of the great old hardwood that lent the place the beat-up character he liked. Expanded the place some, insulated it so he could work comfortably in the cold, installed a sliding barn door salvaged from a farmer. Hired Kes Dameron, just qualified as an electrician, to juice the place up to code. Han could manage wiring himself, but Dameron was trying to make a go of contracting on the side from Chewie's, Shara was going back to nursing school and they had a kid and mortgage, while Han was earning more money than he'd ever imagined. Han hired Kes on a weekend so he could pay double-time with no effacement of Dameron's pride. _You're sneaky,_ Leia said later, loving accusation in her eyes.

But what to work on? Millie was running better than ever, the cabin tightened up. Growing drowsy on the hot lounger, Han stumbled into a thought: _problem with the shop is..._ The problem was, he'd made the shop too big. Expanded it enough to accommodate work on his projects and on Millie with ample room left over, but now it felt—kinda cold. Eventually Han would think of something to do with the extra space, but for now it just seemed...empty.

The word Han couldn't, or wouldn't, reach—not on this eve of his work trip, on the borders of another birthday—was _lonely._ But Han had a last coherent want: no matter how stupid he looked in his wet jeans, he wished Leia was home.

XXXXXXXXXX

 _Oh, come on_.

Sometimes Han's allure was so ostentatious it struck Leia's eye like a gambler's trick. A glamor, a prestige in the illusory sense, if she didn't intimately know Han's depth. And though she was closer to her husband than anyone else, this was not something Leia could say to him. She could not even explain it to herself, the mingled tenderness, bemusement and lust she felt for Han at his most natural, no preposterous boasting or elastic expressions to disturb the lines of his beauty.

He was sprawled on a canvas lounger, fast asleep. His shirt was off, trim waist flaring to deep chest dusted with wiry copper, broadening further at the shoulders. Tanned to warm toffee. Right arm flung above his head, face mild in rest, turned toward a taut convex bicep. One long leg outstretched, one bent. Big bare feet, those absurd toes. He wore new jeans, soaked indigo, stiff but softening enough to sling at his narrow hips. Resting a knee on the side of the chaise, Leia combed gentle fingers through his shorter, sun-lightened hair; she wanted to scoff at the universe for this clichéd display of blatant maleness. But she did not want to scoff at Han: not at _him,_ no, not like this, coming to slow wakefulness in her shadow, under her slow touch. Leia would never doubt Han's earnestness when he was so drowsy and soft and mussed.

Han blinked up at her, then offered a beatific half-smile. "Heya, Princess." His already low voice weighted with sleep.

Leia smiled back at him from under her mother's wide-brimmed straw hat, sipping her Coke. She held out the bottle. Han sat up to take it, a long icy swallow rousing him. Leia watched his eyes scale rapid levels of consciousness and color as they roved over her figure, irises rising from hazy khaki to the clear bright shade of the green glass at his lips.

Her cream bikini was piped in navy. The structured top emphasized her generous bust and the waist of her small shorts was well south of her navel. The cut was more daring than Leia would once have chosen, though far from the golden Isolder disaster. And the only reason Leia wouldn't have worn this style last year was because an insolent stranger was living here, but that man was no longer foreign to her, nor to the form now before him—though you wouldn't guess how thoroughly Han knew Leia from the way he looked at her now.

"I got my own damn bikini." Leia stepped back from the lounger, inviting, even daring the stare that had once incited her to wrath.

"You...sure... _did._ "

Between his deliberate syllables, Han worked the bottle into the sand, never taking his eyes from Leia. But when he lunged to surprise her, to seize her at the waist, Leia dodged so that he only just grazed her hip, momentum sending him to a knee on the beach. Laughing, Leia tossed the teasing Frisbee of her hat at him, escaping to the water's edge. On his knees, Han watched Leia run into the scalloped waves, a small ache in his heart for her spirit and grace. Then, rising, Han took after her at speed. He'd thought he wouldn't swim in jeans, but there was nowhere he wouldn't follow that beloved shape.

XXXXXXXXXX

Leia was a beautiful swimmer, fast and practised. When Han, hindered by wet trousers, reached the dock she was already perched there, her hair slicked sleek and dark as black leather. Chest rising and falling with her exertion, with the swaying platform. Han planted an elbow on the wood to anchor himself as he recovered. Leia smiled down at him in the water as he playfully bit at her kneecap, then she peered closer.

"Han? Are you still wearing your—"

Han smirked, ignoring the short ladder bolted to the dock, hoisting himself to join Leia on the wet cedar. Looking steadily at her and not missing the way she looked at him in return as he pushed his body from the water. Her eyes followed the long veins in his extended arms, the very paths she liked to map with her fingertips when they were in bed together, close and bare just after.

"Forgot to take 'em off in all the excitement."

"That's not like you," Leia said dryly.

Han ran his own finger under a bikini strap, watching Leia's neck flush in response and marvelling at the private arrangement of nerves strung under her skin. "I _like_ this thing," he confided, softly snapping the strap against her shoulder.

"Oh?" Leia pulled back to look at him, arching a fine eyebrow. "Would you say it, hmmm, how did someone put it—blows your doors off?"

Han nodded. "Doors," His broad hand opened on her belly, spanning from hipbone to just under the cups of her bikini top, pulling her steadily closer. "Hinges, jambs..."

He tilted his head to kiss her in earnest but suddenly Leia stood, sending his wet palm skidding down her middle. Smiling at Han's small trumpeting of thwarted outrage, Leia walked away from him to the opposite side of the dock. Feeling him track the sway of her hips, slow until the final faster steps that carried her off the edge into an elegant arc.

When Leia broke the surface of the lake, Han was standing on the ledge she'd just abandoned, thumbs hooked into his pockets. "Your _Highness_." He whistled, steady, impressed, enamored. "That was some dive."

"Your turn, Hotshot," Leia goaded, treading water.

Han paused, seeming abruptly removed from his usual physical confidence. Leia read this in the minute dip of his shoulders, a shuffling of feet made unsure of purchase on the slick planks. And she was surprised at this hesitance, since there wasn't much in the kinetic realm that Han couldn't at least pass muster at. Han did insist he couldn't dance, but Leia suspected this was discomfort with the exposure of a public floor. Because often at home Han spontaneously pulled Leia close, moved her easily through the kitchen to the rhythm of whatever was playing on the radio, or the jukebox they'd never given back to the Rogues. His body was its own boast of competence.

Not one to concede to inexperience, Han set his jaw. He retreated on the dock, then launched himself into a charging leap that dashed its impact over her. Soaked, Leia stared in shock as Han cleared the waves he'd made. When she couldn't help but snicker—she _did_ try not to—Han gave her a look, lips rounded in mock-hurt. Leia began to speak then shook her head, yielding into laughter, leaning back into water made supportive by the regular sweeping of her arms.

He sluiced a hand over his face, other arm working, legs cycling to keep himself vertical. "Yeah, yeah." Han muttered. "Laugh it up, Missus." He angled a glance at her from under tawny lashes. "Maybe you could, uh. Show me again."

Her relish of correctness piqued, Leia spent the next twenty minutes performing perfect dives before Han's wide, studious eyes. Strictly she adjusted his position, put her hands freely on him to gauge weight distribution, placed his own hands on her legs and waist and hips to best demonstrate placement. Leia taught him so clearly and thoroughly that she couldn't believe it when Han's dives got worse— _Han,_ who'd casually leap up during their forest walks to catch a tree limb, pulling himself into chin-ups, overhand or under, then swing himself into easy dismount, resuming his stroll alongside her. How was it, Leia thought, tossing up her hands in exasperation as Han somehow hit the lake _backwards,_ that this man, so agile on land, could not get his shoulders into the water before his frankly beautiful ass?

And that was it: it was the jeans, Leia thought later. They were so funny and out-of-place in the lake, yet aggressively attractive plastered on him—Han's goofiness and sex appeal a combination that would forever weaken her. Han like this, combined with her love of instruction, clouded Leia's logic, prevented her from seeing the _actual_ gambler's trick. His sleight-of-body. Leia really should have guessed something was up from the escalating slapstick: Han went in on his feet, his front, on his side, hitting so hard and clumsily and, and _wide_ that Leia was surprised any liquid remained in the crater basin of Alder Lake. All the while Leia cupped her hands to her mouth, hollering pointers that Han missed, so furiously did he hurl himself at the water.

His last attempt was a truly baffling flop so powerfully _wrong_ that it left Leia sinking to her knees on the dock with despairing mirth. Han came up shaking his short hair, a hapless pup complete with mournful eyes. His shame was so showy that Leia paused like a deer scenting something on the breeze, narrowing her own doe eyes—and then she saw the flash of white teeth, quickly hidden. _Oooh, that...shark_. And that was Han's mistake, not the brief smirk which he may have intended Leia to glimpse anyway—no, Han's tell was unconscious reversion to grace as he stroked easily and quickly back to the dock. Han forgot, or could not feign, the gawkiness necessary to maintain his playful con.

Still kneeling on the wood, Leia shook her head. She tried to hold her chiding expression as Han pressed himself up from the water, tried to ignore how low his soaked jeans dragged on his hips. "Why am I getting the feeling..." Leia began, lifting her chin as he rose to full blithe height.

Han, face and voice neutral, said "why can't I get this though" and fell immediately sideways off the dock, body rigid as a plank, into the waves. Leia laughed and laughed, letting her head fall back, grazing her waist with the points of her two wet braids. She was still laughing when Han reappeared on the platform above her. The gold band on his finger flashed hot semaphore.

"What's my score?"

Leia held up her fingers in a loose zero, then reconsidered. "Okay, two. You're cute."

" _Two?_ Ah hell." Han laced his fingers at the back of his neck. "Gimme one more chance, Sweetheart, willya?"

Leia made a gesture of elaborate tolerance. Han twisted his torso, stretched luxuriantly all along his long spine, shuddering with pleasure. And he took a brief set of steps back, then covered the distance again at speed and flew, knifing clean into the waves with all the lean utility one would expect from Han Solo's frame.

He came up as sleek and grinning and toothy-sweet as a dolphin. "Princess! I think I got it!" Leia's husband exulted, borrowing her brother's earnestness.

Leia crawled to the edge of the platform, lowering herself prone to her elbows to meet his return. Han slung tan arms on the wood on either side of her. "You," Leia sighed, gripping his chin and administering a scolding string of kisses, "are shameless."

Han hummed his admission, his satisfaction with Leia's attention, flashed a grin against her mouth that more than lived up to her accusation. "You? Are _gorgeous._ "

"No, I'm clueless." Leia laughed again. "You're from a port city! I should have known."

"Yeahhhp." Han said. "Piers right near the home." Long fingers slipped just under the legbands of her shorts, skimming the backs of her thighs. "But I do appreciate your, uh, unbelievable form,"

She rolled her eyes at his gleeful flirtation. "In _jeans?_ You looked like bouncers were ejecting you from a bar."

"No shirt, no shoes, no service." Han hitched a shoulder. Leia drew back to smile at him, her eyes with their rich deep sparkle. Resting his chin on the wood, Han regarded her. And Leia looked back at Han as he folded his forearms in front of the lower half of his face, his eyes very green against his tan. He angled an eyebrow toward his wet-tufted hair.

"...bouncers, huh." Leia could tell from the crinkling around Han's eyes that he'd smiled behind his obscuring arms. "You gonna get rowdy while I'm gone, Princess?" Now those eyes were amber, complicated: hungry, warm and soft, slightly pained.

They hadn't talked much about their looming separation. It wasn't like Han hadn't been away from her—he had, twice, on quick overnight flights with Doc and the guys to adjoining states. But now Han would be in Eisley for a week. And over the ninth of July. When Leia mentioned that date, Han shrugged and said he'd never made a thing of his birthday anyway. Still, Leia could tell he felt _something_ about it, even if Han himself did not know it: perhaps it was the ghost of old loneliness. The birthday bothered her, Leia thought, possibly more than him.

It wasn't like Leia didn't have, and love, her own work, particularly with the unprecedented success of her first column on New Hope. Han loved his work too, ecstatic about his flying lessons, the prospect of being assigned short shipping hauls. Both seasoned by their experiences, neither of them demanded perpetual heaven, though this first married summer felt to Leia very close to that. They were young and, in ways, still getting to know each other, layer after layer, through enjoyable debates and verbal exchange of prior lives. Their days off wound like rivers around sex and errands in town and rambling walks and companionable chores. Long mornings spent in bed, with what to have for dinner the evening's most taxing concern. That was often the diner. And after, the hammock or records or television or Luke on the phone or they'd go to the drive-in (sometimes they watched the movie, sometimes they just spent sixty cents to neck for two hours in Millie's cab). And back to bed again. Leia was still happily surprised, sometimes, to find herself married to Han, the man she had been compelled to wed. Han who couldn't wear his wedding band with his hands in engines so he found the chain welded to his dog-tags—debossed with SOLO, H. TYPE A POS. RELIGION: NONE—and looped the band on, wore that chain rather than leave his ring behind.

"Han," Leia felt seized by urgency. "When you come home, for your birthday—"

Gray crept into Han's eyes; he cast them to the shoreline. "Hey, we better head back. Antilles said I gotta let the pants dry out."

Leia cocked a brow, allowing him his evasion. It was his birthday, after all, not hers, and she knew now that Han would always in time open to her. And this would give her time, she decided, time to make his birthday celebration flawless, even if delayed. She felt her lifelong iron determination in her spine: Leia would make her husband's twenty-fifth birthday perfect, so perfect that it would cancel all the others.

"Or what?"

His lip crawled up the side of his face. "Or I'm a frog again, Princess. Wanna race me back?"

"Why don't you dry them on the dock?" She said it lightly, but she tucked her fingers into the water, into his back pocket.

"Oh, I would." With open eyes Han kissed her, firm and final, in a way that made Leia think of punctuation: _baseline dot._ "But you're goin' pink. And not in the way I want."

XXXXXXXXXX

Later, night, much later, long after Han had completed several cycles of the Rogues' assignment with increasing vocal impatience that made Leia laugh to hear as she read _Peyton Place_ on a chaise in the shade; after their picnic supper of cold fried chicken and potato chips and fruit salad she had picked up from the diner, Han and Leia curled together on an old quilt on the beach. They were so relaxed that all was sense: the occasional prickle of long grass through sand and patched fabric, the acrid crackle from the fire Han built, the lingering heat rising from the beach that had completely dried his jeans at last. Below the smoke the deep green breath of trees, the sweetness of their own skin after a day in fresh water and sun. They didn't talk so much as just keep close, Leia's head on Han's chest, her ear rumbling with his hum along with the transistor radio. Tucked under his shoulder, his fingers in her hair, his other arm folded behind his head. At nine o'clock the fireworks began downtown and they sat up to watch stalks of light from downtown bud and burst, making them laugh, point, mouths hot with burnt sugar and tart with icy lager.

Leia rose, on her knees, and moved closer to the fire with the marshmallow stick Han had whittled. She wore his discarded work-shirt open over her bikini, her hair loose and waved from air-drying in braids. And something in Leia's attire, her posture reminded Han of the Gil Elvgren calendar in the hangar. He'd always liked 'em, those pinup girls, since he first saw them painted on the sides of Allied planes at the dawn of his sexual awareness. _Belle Wringer. Gorgeous George-Ann._ In their garters, in their bathing suits and sheer nighties, the exotic markers of all that was unknown to his lonely adolescence. And Han's understanding of his liking for Elvgren girls stopped there, at the broad base of itself; he did not consider, not consciously, that these pretty women were often pictured not only unclothed but also in the midst of doing something recognizably human, something warm and—and _loving,_ like wrapping presents or writing letters to their soldiers or...well, say, roasting marshmallows.

As a teenager Han never questioned the absurdity of the situations that illustrated the titillating mystery of women in their filmy underthings; he'd been merely grateful to project his longing and lust. But as a man, as a grown man married to this exact woman, it was impossible and unwanted for Han to imagine _Leia_ catching her damn skirt in the oven door while she was baking a cake, not realizing what she was revealing. No. Leia certainly had the hourglass figure and the bikini, she was as playful and industrious, inquisitive and beguiling as any of those cheesecake girls—but her allure was tempered by her intelligence, her incisive awareness, and it was this combination that ruined him.

Even apart from his true love for her, his admiration for her as a discrete person, Leia Organa was also some alloy of everything that Han Solo found sexually irresistible, bright and magnetic and molten. And so Han made an involuntary sound to see Leia now, sitting back on her heels, smiling up at the neon bursts, nibbling melted confection from her thumb. At this noise she looked to him, tucking wavy hair behind her ear. Han wasn't going to answer, but Leia went on quizzing with her eyes, her red lips quirking upwards. A little embarrassed by his moony expression, Han was thankful for firelight to obscure the extra heat he felt crawling into his neck.

Her eyes sharpening—she _did_ like to find new roads into him—Leia moved deliberately to Han, still on her knees. She seemed steady enough, but her face was flushed so that Han wondered if she _had_ got that sunburn or—

"Are you drunk?" Han wasn't, not really—just pleasantly buzzed, an easy glaze in his hazel eyes.

"No," Leia said, carelessly. "Are _you_ blushing?"

She slung herself astride Han's thighs, her face close to his and somehow both indulgent and intense. And Leia waited. Her slight weight on him a wonderful abrasion. Han sighed, cupped her bottom with one hand; with the other he stroked the back of her neck, under her fragrant, sheltering hair.

"You look like one'a them pinups," Han finally said. "At a guy's work, like. You seen 'em?"

Leia raised her eyebrows in triumph and tenderness. Then she smiled, pushing Han gently down as she kissed him deeply, for a long time, as though in reward for releasing this old, mild but guarded part of himself to her.

"So." Leia opened her mouth on Han's throat, finding his jumping pulse. She moved to kiss his still-bare chest, his taut, bunching belly, lower. Bit at Han's angled hipbone, toying with the topmost glinting new button slung below his navel. "How long until these can come off?"

"Now. Ri—" Han was cut off by his own rough swallow, fingers flown to his button-fly. " _Right_ now."

But with the unforgiving stiff fabric and Han's emphatic eagerness underneath, the buttons resisted. Han wrangled and wriggled and muttered and swore until Leia's kisses dissolved into laughter against his abdomen.

"Fuckin' _guys,_ " Han growled through his teeth, weltering beneath her, "sold me a damn _chastity belt_ —"

Leia batted his wringing hands away and slipped her much smaller fingers into the close spaces dividing denim and metal discs. The buttons left their slots with muted pops, like the fireworks appearing in the distant sky, above the treeline. Han heaved a sigh, just threaded with groan. And Leia breathed a soft, fond laugh as she freed him, asked him: "No underwear in this blue jeans rite?"

"Uh." Han leaned up on his elbows, breathing uneven. "The guys said—"

Words broke in his throat as Leia brought her beautiful mouth to him. His chest felt like an imploding star, inflamed and collapsing, and all he could do was exhale heat: _Jesus._ Han fell back to threadbare patchwork, one hand closing in sand, the other in her hair. _Leia—_

 _Goodnight, sweetheart,_ the radio entreated, _goodnight._ And Leia pulled Han into the blooming climb of something hotter, sweeter, than fire tossed into the sky to rain down as color.


	2. Chapter 2

Nothing worked.

Oh, the sales went fine—better than fine. Doc was confident in his services and ran a straight pitch: he flew cargo better than anyone, on time and at a fair price. That was it. That was all he said, in meeting after meeting, day after day, all over the city of Eisley. Han kept his mouth shut until he was asked about routes or mechanical specs; no jokes or flattery required, Cunliffe laid those on thick enough.

No: it was the motel that did Han in. The Valley Dell Motor Inn. Doc wasn't cheap, so work trips were generally comfortable, but this time Cunliffe had been entrusted with arrangements and had obviously forgotten. This motel was all that was available in Eisley in the crowded summer. How Han hated it. Hated driving back to the squat, glitter-stucco building every evening after supper in some lousy bar and grill. Hated the stagnant-smelling creek that cut through the scrubby campground next door. And, Han being Han, he _especially_ hated that everything was broken.

It was! Everything was fuckin' broken! Han raged it to himself standing in the shower under a cold, rust-tinged trickle of water, unable to work up the faintest lather from the stingy bar of soap. Han hated the electric percolator that didn't get much hotter than the shower, hated the sachets of gritty instant coffee, still more potable than the bitumen brewed by the not-Chewie diner across the street. Han hated his room's fake-pine panelling, the windows that didn't open and the blinds that didn't close over the window that hoarded sunlight while he was out. Hated the hollow, warped door that wouldn't stay open until Han propped it with the phone book in the evenings so he wouldn't die of heat exposure. Hated the radio that never got a clear signal. Hated the portable fan, its breeze set to kitten-sneeze and no higher.

He hated (... _feared?_ asked his mind-voice. _Hated,_ Han snarled back) the slosh and thump of the public laundry room separating his room from Doc's. He used it sometimes—the trip was a week, he had to—but did so like a child taking medicine, lips set, eyes almost slits. Threw his clothes in, the soap, and sat on the balcony just outside, fiddling with his knife. Didn't bother with the dryer—it was July, he just hung his clothes from the closet rail in his stuffy room. Wore his jeans damp in the evening because why not, seeing the change in their fit, how the Rogues had been right.

Hated, _hated_ the bed, so narrow and short that it seemed the manifestation of loneliness.

But most of all. Most of all, Han hated the telephone.

The first day away, the fifth of July, the men had met in Eisley and gone straight into long meetings. Hours. After that Han had to drive Millie after Cunliffe's sedan all over town in unfamiliar traffic, stop-and-start, searching for something with vacancy. When they'd finally found the Valley Dell Motor Inn, it was gone five o'clock, twelve hours since Han hit the road from Alder Glen—and he and Leia hadn't slept much, though Han had no regrets about _that._ Exhausted, Han climbed to the balcony and unlocked his door into the sweltering room, threw his duffel on one of two stunted, plaid-covered beds and flopped down on the other. It sagged dramatically in the middle, and Han grumbled as he rolled over to grab the phone on the pressboard bedside table.

Han made it through the first four digits of his own home number, DL-44...before realizing he heard nothing on the line but eerie flatness. He rattled the depressor, hoping in vain for a dial tone.

 _Fuck._ Pulling himself from the polyester ditch of the bed Han went down the outdoor stairs. The front office was located by the pool, empty of water and tentacled with mold. There was no one at the reception desk. There _was_ a bell, one of those small steel jobs that sounded like a bright peal from hell. Han extended a hand over its dinger, then stuck his fingers back in his jeans pocket. Even hot and frustrated and focused on calling Leia as he was, Han didn't want to be _that_ guy, the Threkin Horm, the haughty prick who thought clocks were set to his very pulse. He could give it a couple minutes; at least the office was air-conditioned.

To distract himself Han turned the listing metal rack of postcards. And they were the weirdest shit—one of a bleak diner table, empty of all but a bowl of steaming beige paste. Muffling his snort, Han plucked the card from its slot. Behind it he found a glamor shot of the Valley Dell pool actually clean and in use, all turquoise water and sunbathers. Han took it too and held it up to the window, comparing it to the slimy pit outside. He began to feel a little guilty, then—not a whole lot, but some. Perhaps the twins' empathetic imagination was rubbing off on him: what if the motel used to be nice, but the owners had fallen on hard times? Maybe they were old folks, some long-married pair that couldn't keep up with the maintenance work, and—

Han gave the bell as brief and courteous a tap as he could. There was no sound except a flat, dull click. A man emerged, anyway, from some back room: forty-odd and tanned, looked capable enough in his white sport shirt and madras shorts. Wearing a watch that cost more than Han's truck. Set of golf clubs slung over his shoulder, an exasperated look. Han had clearly interrupted Chet's (he _had_ to be a Chet) plans for an evening on the course. Fella had some nerve, Han thought. _Some nerve_ to take people's money for amenities you didn't provide, and just...piss off. Maybe he fed complainers to the fungal monster living in the swimming pool.

"Just the postcards? Take them," Chet snapped.

"It's the phone in my room," Han said, in a level way that everyone who knew him would recognize as true distaste.

"What's it doing?"

Han stared. "Not phonin'."

Chet took in Han's clothes, his Levi's, pearl-snapped plaid work-shirt rolled to the elbows, engineer boots. "There's a payphone at the gas station down the street."

"See, that ain't—" Han began, lifting his index finger, but Chet was already out the door, problem solved in his own mind.

Han scowled. No sense of standards, no pride? Teeth clamped into his tongue, Han shook his head. The postcards were five cents each; Han snapped his dime on the desk and left.

Back in his room Han had a weak shower, then changed into khaki bloodstripes and clean t-shirt and walked to the Texaco three blocks east, called Leia from the payphone to say he'd arrived. The booth was glass and even with the folding door retracted it held the whole day's heat. He felt like some wilting plant, and through the hiss and whistle of the bad connection, he heard little of what Leia said. Han pressed the palm of his hand hard to the glass above his head. All he could say was that he was there and alive, that he loved her and goodnight, and hope Leia heard him. After a stretch of dead silence Han hung up with a soft curse.

On his way back, Han stopped in the unlocked, deserted office and swiped the silver bell.

XXXXXXXXXX

The days passed, but the days weren't the worst. During the days, there was work, and though Han easily spent hours in the hangar and whistled all the way home after, _sales_ work drained him. Cunliffe was draining, relentlessly demanding attention. Waitresses, clients, restaurant patrons, motel neighbors, Han, Doc—he set out to charm them all. Cunliffe was hot-tempered, but he was not truly vicious; just perpetually onstage, craving adulation. He made Han, a high-energy man himself but not at all the same type, want to sack out and sleep for a week.

But Han couldn't sleep. In the evenings he found himself tuning in to the quiz shows Leia watched on their own new TV, and he had not much hope of competition but Han liked to imagine her watching them too, liked and winced to think of her listening as she wandered their own clean, functional, compact home. Alone. He pictured Leia absently offering correct answers to _Twenty-One_ as she got food, books, drinks, misplaced her glasses, reviewed her research, took notes. Curled in the armchair wearing one of his old t-shirts in that careless, shoulder-slipped way that drove him nuts. _Leia Organa._ If he'd been a contestant, her name would have been Han's every answer.

As he watched, Han wrote out his postcards with the silver drafting pen Luke had given him for Christmas. And it was Luke Han sent the first postcard to. On the front the postcard was printed in chlorine-blue script: _Valley Dell Motor Inn. Enjoy our pool!_ In his own black ink Han drew crude tentacles flailing from the water like in those sci-fi flicks the kid liked and scrawled on the back: _E3—It's a trap. The pit monster will eat you for a thousand years. E7._

The picture of weird hot mush Han sent to Chewie. _Cream of what the hell is this? See you soon, pal._

To Leia, for Leia, Han tried to write a letter on the small pad of paper he found under the phone that couldn't reach her. But he didn't get past _Sweetheart, I want_ before he was thumb-clicking his retractable pen, thinking of when the Damerons drove out to Alder Glen so Kes could wire the shop while Leia and Shara took Poe on a picnic. As they pulled paraphernalia from their car, Shara casually handed the baby to Han. Han froze—what was the kid, four or five months old?—but the boy's big shiny eyes had quickly tracked the glinting pen behind Han's ear. So Han settled the kid as best he could in the crook of one arm and spun the steel cylinder between his fingers, like a propeller. Poe chirruped and flailed, trying to close his dimpled hands on the flashes of silver. Pilot-reflexes on the little guy. Han was grinning at the kid when Leia came through the screen door onto the porch.

Her hair was loose-plaited over one shoulder; she wore the red gingham sundress he'd bought her. Damn. _Damn,_ Han hadn't been able to fully picture, in Priscilla's shop, just how the dress would honor her hourglass figure. Poe batted at Han's moving Adam's apple. Beaming at the baby, Leia clapped her hands softly and held them out to him. With a delighted squeal, Poe lunged for Leia so quickly that Han lunged with him to keep the kid from taking a header. Leia picked Poe up and perched him at her hip, smiling as he pawed at the sunglasses atop her head. _Man_ Leia looked pretty, and right, and happy, walking down the forest path laughing with her best friend and the baby. As he watched her go, checked skirt swaying around her knees, Han wasn't sure who was goggling at Leia harder: him or the adoring kid in her arms. And then Leia glanced back over one milky shoulder and _winked_ , the little minx, knowing Han couldn't tackle her to the thick bracken then and there.

But that wasn't the sort of thing a guy wrote out, was it? _I like you. Babies like you. You're so pretty, Princess._ Jesus Christ! Han shoved the paper away, went for another walk to the Texaco for another call that was so broken up it was like speaking in code: _I. You. Miss. Love._ _Goodnight._

Late on July eighth, the night before his birthday, Han stumbled on some weird show, eerie theme tune raising the hair on his arms. But stalled halfway to sleep he watched, and disconnected from his wife, from their life, Han found he could relate. Yeah, he was in _The Twilight Zone_ alright, trapped alone in a dimension where nothing. Fucking. Worked, and the twist was—this was killer—the twist was that _this_ man, this particular man, really liked things to work. ( _...needed?_ Han's mind-voice prodded. _No!_ Han mentally snarled back. _Just really, really, really_ _ **liked.**_ )

In front of the high, whining test pattern Han finally slipped over the line of sleep, into the ninth of July. And he dreamed he was in Korea again, on his side across his high, too-short bunk. The mail call going on and on, through all the names that weren't his own. All them love letters and birthday cards and Han had to look like he didn't give a fuck.

XXXXXXXXXX

July 9, 1957. Han returned from a breakfast meeting at past one, terse and irritable. He stuck a couple bottles of soda in the bag of ice he bought from the diner—the motel machine was out of everything but warm grape Fanta—and collapsed across the beds. He'd pushed the two together, and this was even more uncomfortable but Han was too stubbornly pissed to change it back. He didn't have more meetings until three o'clock, so Han sank into a hot, restless nap that turned into a dream of Leia on their dock, lying on her belly in red gingham bikini bottoms that knotted at the sides. And she was playing like she was surprised to find one bow untied—playing like a pinup but smart, wry, still Leia all the while, smiling at him in her secret way, smiling over her shoulder, sweeping her hair from her huge eyes and _oh_ the swelling rise and fall on the water, the way she—

Han woke hard as hell and that did not help his mood at all. He went into the shower, facing the mean, trickling chill until his heavy heat abandoned him. That was a mercy; the prospect of taking care of himself in this rust-mottled shower, alone on his birthday, depressed Han beyond expression. Another time, another place, no problem, but in this setting it seemed just...miserable function.

Pulling up boxer-briefs Han snapped on the radio, expecting it to fail him. He wasn't a self-pitying man, he was forever grateful for what he had but today, the ninth of July, stranded in the Jolly Hell Motor Inn, Han allowed a sullen grievance to creep in, even sought further evidence of his mistreatment. But the radio...worked, clear and loud. Hands on his slim jersey-cottoned hips, Han cocked his head in disbelief at the DJ's slick patter. Well alright, Han thought. Let no one say Han Solo wouldn't take a little good luck.

And then Han's eye fell on something that had been slipped under his door while he was asleep, or in the shower.

 _No way. Too good to be true._ The envelope was pale blue, same shade as Leia's fancy stationery but...no. No point in jacking up his hopes. The note was probably from Cunliffe, some dirty knock-knock joke and any minute the guy would actually knock because that was the kinda shit he—

Han stepped closer. Most of the envelope was obscured by a sticker that read _Registered Overnight Mail._ Doc had signed for delivery but the letter smelled like Leia, roses and vanilla. Swiftly Han knelt, grabbed the envelope up. It was addressed to Han Solo, c/o the Valley Dell Motor Inn. He rose, retrieved his knife and slit the envelope, removed several small, folded pages. They were scented even more like her and Alder Glen, like Leia in their home, and Han felt a wave of feeling so powerful that he sank to the edge of the bed.

Han's lips parted and eyebrows knit as he read.

The first page was headed _Twenty-Five_ and it, and all the pages that followed, was listed with things Leia Organa loved about her young husband. Things that made her laugh, that comforted her, made her feel cherished or safe or feverish. Things that reminded her of him, that she wanted to do with and to him, over the course of a lifetime with him. And his wife, his stealthy, pensive sleuth, hadn't stopped at twenty-five things about Han Solo but had collected fifty-six, and Han didn't know if this was intentional reference to the year they'd met or simply that that was when she'd had to hit the mailbox, but it thrilled him, moved him, nonetheless.

Leia's observations ranged from teasing to tender; from clever to insightful to silly to so incendiary Han's hand involuntarily crumpled delicate paper. She loved his innate pride, the way he wore his pants, his ash-green eyes, things he made. His quick tongue (his tongue made other appearances on the list). The unique workings of his mind. The lanky inventiveness of his body, also its occasional idiosyncratic clumsiness. Sometimes Leia thought all her work-day of things he'd said when he was inside her; the way their words could be both plea and order. She wrote of her possessive thrill to see his wedding ring on the chain that held his dogtags, when he forgot to return it to his hand after work: liked to see the circlet outlined beneath an undershirt. Said it was erotic in some unknowable way, her ring in the fine bronze hair, on the chain that held other vital information of faith and heart. She liked the notion that Han Solo was _hers,_ Leia supposed, more than she should, more than she would ever have guessed.

She loved, _loved_ the way he kissed her.

Leia's love for Han was blazing and joyous, funny, loyal and fierce, pressed into the paper in every elegant stroke of ink. Han swore when he was done reading, sighed and swore in a rush and put his hands over his face and tried to smooth the creased paper out. What she'd written took the form of a list but it was a letter alright, Han Solo's first personal letter. His own love letter and the best ever, of course it was, it was from his girl and how did Leia know, how did she _know_ these things?

He knew he'd look crazy if anyone came to the door now, him in his undershorts, hard-on back with a vengeance (#9 on the list, holy _Christ_ ). Han bit flat his trembling lip, worried at the lump in his throat that felt big and sweet as a Pippin apple. Chest thumping out _Sweetheart. Sweetheart, Sweetheart._

What to do now? He had to talk to Leia, had to reach her. Han being Han he decided to ride his luck.

He tried the phone.

And, deep and constant, he heard a tone.


	3. Chapter 3

Han could only stare dumbly at the receiver, so used was he to walking to the payphone every evening. But as Bobby Darin lilted _she's there, watching for me_ Han pawed for the dial, almost dropping the heavy green case and wouldn't a broken foot be nice? Real fitting souvenir of this place.

Ringing. Ringing. Ringing, ringing—well that would be just it, Han reckoned, the _Twilight Zone_ birthday twist: the phone would be connected and Leia wouldn't be home. But then a click and there Leia was, clear and bright as the day outside. _Hello, Hotshot._ For provision of this moment Han could forgive the Dell Valley Motor Inn anything. A broken service bell, swamp beast in the pool; skull in the alley, who fuckin' cared? He was talking to his girl so what the hell. Just to hear himself exist in her voice _, Han,_ rich and soft and...breathless?

"Bar fight, Princess?"

She laughed. "I was just up the path from the lake when I heard the phone. Ran all the way."

Han reclined on the bed, bent an arm behind his head. He couldn't lie, couldn't say _you shouldn't have,_ not when he was this glad she _had._ Then Han heard what sounded like a muted slap, and another. For a split second Han was puzzled, before his brain made a classification that made him writhe, a little, on the awful mattress. Two soft slaps: two halves of a wet bikini hitting their kitchen floor.

"How _are_ you?" she asked.

"Just lyin' here with a bottle of grape Fanta I stuck on ice for an hour."

"You hate grape soda."

"It's in my pants, Little Miss _Number 46._ "

Leia's laughter was both proud and abashed. "Han, I'm—"

"I love you." He cut across her words the way he would have taken her mouth with his, if she were here to kiss.

"I love _you,_ birthday boy."

Han tapped her list against his chest. Now, at last, he could reclaim it: "I know."

She made a pleased, tender sound. "How's the hotel?"

"Ain't a hotel." Leia heard his long pull of soda, and closed her eyes against the thought of his strong tanned throat. "It's a dive." Han drank again, scowled at insipid fake grape.

"Now it's your turn to teach me about _dives."_

"Well. First off. S'anywhere with no pretty little five-foot, whip-smart...smart-ass in my room."

There was a smile in her voice. "Surely there are other things to occupy you."

Han snorted. "There's a calendar." He rattled open a cheap drawer. "Bible."

"What's on the calendar?"

He turned his head. "Ah, y'know, some..." He waved his fingers. "Some hill."

"Not like the one at the hangar, then." Leia's voice came muffled, as it did when she didn't even break conversation as she was getting changed for bed, after a shared bath. Han's memory swiftly—precisely, mercilessly—categorized this, too: it was the sound of Leia pulling one of his t-shirts over her damp bare body.

Han shifted his hips again. _Don't be cruel,_ Elvis entreated from a tinny speaker.

"Now why would you go and say somethin' like—" It came out hoarsely. Han cleared his throat. "Leia. Thinkin' of you in frilly wee-smalls? Ain't helpin' me here."

Now Leia's murmur was dreamy, and this was so much worse and better for Han than her tease about the pinup queens. Her teasing he could deal with—but her genuine longing for him? "I wish I was. There, I mean. To...help."

He gave a short, hard breath: wounded, approving. Leia laughed with affection, but she could almost hear Han grind his teeth and so she stopped. "What's wrong?" she asked, gently.

Han pulled in a muffled hiss. She could picture him, sprawled out on his back on a narrow bed too short for his legs, arm thrown over his eyes. His tone was gruff and imploring. "Whaddaya think's wrong, Leia? I _miss_ you."

Sitting on the kitchen floor, knees drawn up under Han's t-shirt, surrounded in his scent, Leia rested her head against the lower cabinets. As though she could feel him there, draw him into her from the wood. "Me too."

For a long moment each was suspended, their mutual yearning mingling along the wires that ran, buzzing and invisible, above the roads and fields between them.

"So you miss me, huh?" Han's tone deepened. "How...much?"

"So much," Leia said, "that I sleep on the couch, because our bed makes me think of you."

There was a catch, but also sly assertion in his voice. "Couch should, too."

"Oh, it does. Han, _everything_ does." Leia said. "But not the same way as our bed."

"And what, missus," Han sighed in rapt agony, "is that way?"

"In an _I can't sleep_ way."

"I ain't sleepin' either, I—"

"I want you." Unaware herself she was going to say it.

Han's groan was warning, encouraging.

"It's true," Leia said. "I'm not trying to... _Han._ Just a week, I—thought it would be easier." Leia's audible breathlessness seemed to bring out a tandem breathlessness in Han. He made that sound of his, frustration-sound.

"Leia, you are _killing_ me. I am gonna _die_ on my _birthday_. You're killi—" Solution-sound. "Sweetheart. Listen." As if she could do anything _but_ listen over her charging heart, Han's beautiful voice so low, urgent, hopeful. "Try somethin' for me? If you just—we could—"

He wedged the phone between ear and shoulder, clamped the soda bottle into the crook of an elbow and stole his hand down his flat belly. Closing his eyes into Leia's voice, into the picture of Leia in his shirt, his old white shirt teasing transparency on her damp skin and her hand, her own hand finding its hem, finding him in her mind, finding—

There was the crackle of a new connection; Han's throaty, private evocation curdled to horror as a jocular male voice broke in.

" _Han_ Solo! Got the guy at the front desk to put us on a party line! He's good people."

Han's silence was sudden and absolute as murder. Finally: " _Thank_ you."

"Hey, who you talking to?"

"My. _Wife,_ Cunliffe."

"Great, great. The famous Mrs. Solo! Hell— _o!_ He's quite a character."

Leia made a polite, wry sound of acknowledgement.

"Gotta run. Meeting at three, buddy, then beers on me."

" _Thank you very much."_

Han seethed with sexual tension and a certain dark gallantry, as though he was wrapping some sheet around their nakedness _._ Leia felt a complicated sympathy for Han, felt her own arousal, and also the mortification that this salesman was too bluff to feel for his own gaffe. Cunliffe himself signed off with affable oblivion; there was a skipping clunk from his end as he fumbled the receiver, a cheerful curse—not at all like Han's earthy swearing, so natural to him it wasn't obscenity so much as some punctuation—and then the intruder was gone, the line Han and Leia's again.

Yet the moment was gone, too. And it was almost two o'clock.

"Leia." Holding up her letter as though she could see it, see how he held it, Han's throat closed so he nearly couldn't speak. He hoped his tight tone reflected his thankfulness for her, his desire for her, the effort it took to get his words out, and not some reticence he didn't feel—not for Leia, not for _this,_ not ever. "Leia—"

"I know. Happy birthday." Leia's longing shaded playful, promising. "See you soon."

"Goddamned right you will. Three days, and then I got a week off. Don't make any plans, Sweetheart."

XXXXXXXXXX

Han was doing laundry. On his birthday. There was nothing for it: he had to get his clothes in order for his three o'clock meeting.

When Cunliffe had cut in on the call Han sat bolt up from the arm propped behind his head, other wrist caught in the elastic waistband of his shorts. And the grape pop tucked into the exploring arm upended itself all over his clean stacked clothes: Levi's, khaki bloodstripes, work-shirts and t-shirts. It wasn't even Cunliffe's fault, Han thought now as he stood barefoot in his one spared undershirt and thin cotton pajama pants, watching the washing machine whirr and quake. He felt a fresh burst of wrath that even resentment would be barred to him as a release. But that was just the way Cunliffe _was,_ he couldn't stand to be alone—unheard, unseen—for even two damn minutes. Just as Han couldn't help but feel jumpy in this stuffy laundry room.

The chair outside on the balcony was gone, of course, because it was actually fuckin' useful, and he didn't want his clothes to get stolen, so Han forced himself to wait through the whirring and sloshing. He had come prepared, distracting himself with the steel bell taken from the reception desk. Using various tool attachments on his knife, he soon had it apart, the pieces separated on a scarred Formica table; he held a spring up to the sickly, flickering light. Was there—

The washing machine completed its shuddering cycle. Carefully Han put the miniature spring down and began to transfer heavy wet clothes to the dryer, his body resuming an autopilot that he didn't want to consider. He pressed the button.

The dryer was broken.

Han couldn't help it, he barked a laugh that turned into _son of a bitch_ through a gleaming, bitter grin. He didn't kick the dryer because somehow he'd have to be _less_ angry to kick the dryer, so he pulled his clothing free with furious control, piling soaked articles on the table. Shirts, undershorts, those blue jeans that had spent more time wet than—

The rap at the cheap doorjamb woke Han from his trance of rage. Han blinked at his boss. Doc entered the laundry room, raised an eyebrow at the disemboweled bell, held up two Budweisers fitted between his fingers.

Doc gave Han a beer and leaned against the wall, pulled a pack of Marlboros from the breast pocket of his Stay-Prest Western shirt, printed with small tan wagon wheels. He flicked open a Zippo lighter. "You get your letter? Damn fool manager dropped it off with me by mistake."

Han nodded, thanked him, unaware of the wistful tug Doc tracked at the corner of his lip.

"How you doing with all this, son?" Voice pinched with inhalation, Doc swept his arm around the room. Han understood that the older man did not mean the laundry or the accommodations. Pulling at his beer, savoring the good cold wring of lager, Han fit a tiny nut and bolt together. Weighed his answer.

Doc squinted through smoke, pointed a finger. "You miss your girl."

Han opened his mouth, closed it. Pursed his lips, blew out a spring. Doc waited until Han said, "Yeah."

"'Course you do, sweet thing sending you mash notes." Eyes twinkling, Doc settled back against the chipped wall. "Miss my girl, too."

Han stopped. "I thought you liked—"

"Nah. I do sales work because I've done it most my life. But I don't like it. _Cunliffe_ likes it," Doc leaned forward, flicking his cigarette in a tin ashtray atop a wire shelf. "But Cunliffe...has a different situation than you or me."

The boss would never blab about his guys' personal lives, but everyone had seen Cunliffe and his wife have that fight right in the middle of the hangar. Han didn't care to know what _that_ shit was about, but he could tell the Cunliffes were accustomed to such ugliness. Han and Leia could argue until the sun fell into the lake and argue it all the way back up again; their recent debate about whether or not to buy a TV had morphed into sportive nudity on the living room floor. But they rarely _fought,_ not anymore. And even when he and Leia more seriously disagreed, it was never like the glee the Cunliffes got when they scored a hit that made the other flinch. It was...cheating, Han thought now, a little angrily. It wasn't fair to take all that special access to a person—the kind that could fill, say, a list of observations—and convert it to cruelty when it suited you.

The older man offered his apprentice a thoughtful smile, sad at its borders. "For guys like us, it gets _worse_."

Han stared at Doc, aghast. Shrugging, Doc swallowed a mouthful of beer. "When I was your age...hell, I know how it is. You can't wait to get home because—" Doc's eyes softened any bawdiness from the allusion. "Well, lots of reasons to get home, when you're paired up right."

A rush of images came to Han then: untying the halter straps on that gingham dress after the Damerons left, yes, but also Leia's run to the water, her laughter as she sussed his trick on the dock, her knowing kisses after he swam lazily back. The way she tucked her hair behind her ear, her marshmallow stick. He could write his own list right now of things she'd done in just the last few weeks that he loved, liked, missed. Unable to swallow, Han put down his bottle. Went on examining pieces of his bell.

"It was real bad as a young man, but I figured, _won't always be like this._ And I wanted to fly; had to make your sales if you wanted that." Doc sighed a plume of smoke. "It's bad _now_ because I'm feeling my days, wondering how many I got. Don't care to count how many spent away from her." Pain in his weathered face, Doc cast his faded blue eyes at Han. "And here I am out here with you—hey, you're a great kid, Solo. Like you best of all of 'em, if you c'n keep that under your hat. But." He butted his cigarette. "You ain't my Dot."

Cheekbones flushing, Han frowned down at something caught in the bell's biggest spring, the one beneath the depressor. He was surprised at the burst of filial pride and validation he felt at Doc's words. Which was a problem. Han didn't want to let Doc down, but he could not face a future of this, not what Doc was describing. Away from Leia, away from...in his mind's eye Han saw her again with Poe—or was it some other brown-haired child?

Saw himself, with Cunliffe, in a motel where broken things stayed unfixed. Involuntarily Han grimaced. Doc saw this expression, and smiled.

"Solo. Go home."

Han jerked his head up to gape at his boss. "I—"

"Easy, kid." Doc held up his hand. "You didn't let me down. You worked real hard out here, no shame in it. But this salesman bit, it ain't for you. Just like flying ain't for Cunliffe."

All Han could do was wait, his eyes wide on his mentor's face.

"When I retire—and this is coming up in the next few years—I'm gonna give you all the shipping flights. Take your wife once in awhile, if she likes. I'll bump someone else up to Cunliffe for these handshake gigs."

Han braced his thighs against the relief in his knees. "Thanks. Th. _Thank_ you, Doc."

Doc waved off Han's gratitude. Instead, he softly snapped his fingers at the pieces in Han's hands. "Front desk?"

"Yeah, I—" Then Han saw it: a sliver of pink eraser, crammed into the spring to resist rapid compression, to dampen the ringing. With a tiny blade on his knife Han skewered the rubber and pulled it loose, re-assembled the mechanism so rapidly that Doc whistled. "Go, boy."

Han presented the finished bell to Doc; the older man brought down his calloused hand, the ring bright and clear. "Good job, kid. I'll take this back: been meaning to talk to that jerk. You seen the pool? What in the _shit?_ "

The two men smiled at one another. Then Doc mock-scowled.

"You gonna beat it, or what? If I'd been sent home to my wife at twenty-five, well—you don't wanna know. But I'd have got into my wet clothes and hit the goddamn road." Doc winked, clinked Han's half-full beer bottle with his own. "Wouldn't have finished my birthday drink."


	4. Chapter 4

Leia studied the photograph of the finished cake in the recipe she'd torn from the Independence Day feature in the _Gazette._ Festive, frosted in crisp white, the cake was festooned with multicolored sprinkles—it was meant to look like fireworks, Leia guessed. Adjusting her glasses, she pressed her lips into their determined set and re-read Chewie's baking advice, which she'd written neatly in the small red leather notebook with the attached miniature gold pencil that Luke gave her.

As she shopped for ingredients Leia had felt equipped by Chewie's directions, reassured by their rigor: precision, perfect measurements, appropriate temperature and conditions. And the ingredients themselves had looked so clean and promising in the Bluebell Grocery: the cylinder of Magic Baking Powder; the Arm & Hammer and the snowy icing sugar, the neat sleeve of eggs and carton of cream and the orderly foil columns of butter. The unopened packages so jaunty and optimistic. Leia felt quite pleased with herself, in the shop, industriously tucking ingredients into the basket on her arm, ticking them off her tidy notebook list.

But now, in a sticky July kitchen warming still more with the preheating oven, Leia's notes seemed incomprehensible as hieroglyphs. _Don't bully the flour._ Now what had that meant? _**Do**_ _bully the brown sugar._ Bracing a fist on the top of her hip, Leia closed her eyes, gave a huff. Chewie had said she could call the diner if she ran into problems, but he was away. And anyway, it wasn't Chewie's responsibility. Han was her husband, it was her husband's birthday that she was going to make _perfect_ and—damn it, Leia raised her chin. She would not be defeated by a _confection._

When she first thought of doing this for Han, Leia's imagination had skipped ahead to the part where she presented him with a pristine, pastel-iced birthday cake and he could see reflected in its execution how much he was loved, how happy she was that he'd been born. But the reality was this small greasy puddle of butter on the counter. She'd let the butter warm too long outside the refrigerator and the eggs not long enough, and the texture of chilly egg white between her fingers made Leia shudder. It was error after error and by the time the filled pans went into the oven she was sweaty, frazzled, skin tacky with flour and sugary batter.

As the timer counted down Leia went out on the porch, inhaling the relative cool. Phil Antilles sketched her a cheerful wave from the high cab of his oversized truck as he backed down the driveway after his delivery. From Han's shop she could hear music from the jukebox the Rogues had moved, the sound of them packing up their power tools, good-natured debates on placement and angle and weight. Leia blew out a breath. Well, that surprise would work out, at least, regardless of what happened with the cake. She had two days; lots of time to tidy and arrange everything just right, maybe make a cheerful...banner? No. She wasn't the artistic twin, maybe there was time to ask Annie, and she could stock the small fridge with drinks that weren't ersatz grape, and Luke was home next week, Chewie too, and Lando would visit to give Han a game, just his best friends, and then there was that peach nightie she—

Leia reminded herself to breathe. It would be right. It would all be right. This was just the first cake, her practice run. It _was_ Han's birthday today, but he wouldn't even be home until the twelfth. If she wanted to _get crazy,_ as Han often teased about her high standards (as if he didn't share them about his own projects, the hypocrite), Leia could spend days making dud cakes and either succeed or never have to present Han with a single failure. He'd never know, or likely even notice, the absence. Leia bit her lip. But that was the rub, wasn't it? Leia wanted to bake Han a birthday cake because, she suspected, it had never been done.

XXXXXXXXXX

The damned cake leaned like some medieval monument. Her throat hot with frustration, Leia didn't want to go through with icing it, but—wait, _should_ frosting be half-liquid, half-grit? It was too late to sift the sugar, so—Leia nudged up the speed on the pale-green Mixmaster, just slightly scratched, she'd found last week at the Tosche Five and Dime; it had seemed like a sign of the rightness of her plans. She set the speed to eight—and then she'd done it, she'd whipped the icing to little knobs of— _butter?!_ Reflexively yanking the beaters from the big glass bowl without cutting the power, Leia yelped as sandy-slick icing splattered. She had to laugh, then, wiping her cheek, a hard little crack of incredulous disgust. But she slathered icing on the cake, almost grimly. Bail Organa's daughter was no quitter. Even when the candy sparkle in her fist melted to rainbow sugar faster than she could shake her wrist to sprinkle it. Not when she shoved her hair away and streaked this color on her face. Not a fetching Audrey Hepburn stripe of flour, either, but a muddled multicolored print that looked like Luke's paint-box had slapped her.

XXXXXXXXXX

The Rogues cordially declined Leia's offer of cake, a little unnerved by the intensity in her eyes. Kes, who had been installing the long, hanging, shaded light fixture for hours without a break, claimed he was full and Wedge, famous for demolishing _plural_ pieces of cake at Leia and Luke's childhood birthday parties, said he'd never liked cake and _Janson?_ Janson said the cake looked like a warty clown. Lando, who had helped Leia track down Han's gift, winced and patted her elbow as he left, saying Han would truly appreciate her gesture. And then her friends were all gone, off to work and dates.

Leia thanked them extravagantly for their efforts and meant it; she kept the smile on her face, but it fell the second the door was closed. She had never, in her life, considered herself incompetent. Her first cake a dismal failure, and she could not identify what she had done wrong, so could not believe she'd do any better. It rattled her. Leia had also never done well with frustration, so swift and sure of herself, sure in her calculations, sure of her own judgement. And this was so painful to consider, that she could not bring her punishing standards to fruition for the man she loved. Leia bowed her head. It would seem funny to her, years later, but in the moment Leia's reaction was actual suffering, a feeling that she'd let her husband down.

Finally, lifting her chin, Leia gave the cake-thing the finger. Into the shower she stormed, flinging around some of Han's favorite words under the spray, feeling the curses and the powerful water slake a measure of her anger. Once out, Leia didn't bother with her brassiere; it was too hot. She pulled on new playclothes, a peasant blouse and skirt she wouldn't wear out because they were so thin and short but were perfect for a summer night at home.

Alone.

Sighing, Leia faced the prospect of another night without Han. She'd deeply meant what she said to him, that it was hard to sleep without him, that their bed was impossible. His lingering scent and the sense memory it inspired did things to her mind, her heart, her body that made her ache. She'd hated the brief, broken pay-phone calls that were mostly exchanged frustration, hated how they estranged her from Han. But in fact it was worse now, tonight, missing him was worse since that clear but abbreviated conversation, the dark honey timbre of Han's persuasive—

 _No._

After a tomato sandwich supper Leia tried to work at her desk, but couldn't concentrate, couldn't separate enough to examine New Hope's emotional history, the human stories that structured her new features. Instead Leia thought of Han, things she'd forgotten from his list. Again she kicked herself: had she said she loved his voice, his voice that made a bedroom of everywhere they went? How had she neglected to mention that sculptural dent between his collarbones? Or how he'd looked, one day in June, hunting strawberries. Han walked the length of an old stone wall and there was a particular way he'd balanced there, easy-tense flex to his leading leg, that she'd found almost brutally attractive. Damn it, every time Leia began to type she was confronted with such thoughts and so she stopped, lest she type _I like cloth stretched taut on your thigh, Hotshot_ and somehow submit this copy to Mon Mothma.

At almost seven in the evening, Leia slipped on her espadrilles and went out to Han's shop. The Rogues and Lando had done a spectacular job of spatial situation, respecting Han's configuration while capitalizing on the once-dead space. Still she fretted in the aftermath of her baking fiasco, biting her thumb. Was it all wrong? No, no. She had lots of time, Leia told herself. Lots of time to accustom herself, to make it flawless.

She supposed she could practice, Leia thought, maybe she'd get good enough to give Han a run for his...well, not his money, but it would be nice to not bore him silly.

XXXXXXXXXX

"Rave On" was on the radio as Han hit his own driveway in the rose-gold of evening. He'd stopped in Mantell for a quick sandwich and about a gallon of water and now he was electric and alive, craning his neck to look if Leia was on the porch, in the hammock, if the sound of the truck had brought her to the door. Still hum-muttering _tell me not to be lonely_ along with Buddy Holly _._ Where was she? He had a whole list of kisses to give Leia tonight, twenty-five to start, fifty-six not enough, hard and soft and deep and slow and gentle and starved and he was going to back her through the open front door and he was going to untie those ruffled strings on that little apron she wore against her typewriter ink and then he'd unfasten her dress, strip Leia's pretty frippery from her like wrappings from a gift, and _then—_

He near-leapt from the truck and stopped. Music, coming from his...shop? Han crunch-loped across the gravel drive, around the side of the cabin, to where his sliding barn door stood open. And in a block of mellow light from a new light fixture was Leia, in an outfit Han had also never seen before. He thought it was a dress, gauzy blue cotton, little top that came off her shoulders, exposing no straps. It wasn't until Leia leaned across the pool table and the ribbed middle rode up on her slender waist that he realized she wore a matching blouse and skirt, invitingly divided by midriff. Her damp loose ponytail swished around her shoulders and impatiently she flicked it back, frowning as she attempted a corner shot.

 _...pool table?_ Han's mind-voice caught up with his racing heart. _Corner shot?_

He opened his mouth but then Leia, looking oddly dejected at her miss, did this dance, swivelling to the irresistible rhythm of "Mr. Lee." A fierce little movement, almost as though to distract herself, or to expel some kind of frustrated energy, a drive Han understood more than most. It was just a sway of hip, quick step to the side and back, but something about the way her hand cut through the evening light from the doorway, how her legs flexed and her curves shaped what he'd thought was a dress; how her eyelashes swept her cheeks as she breathed _one, two, three._..arrested Han in his tracks. Struck by the way the throwaway dance existed as Leia's own. Appreciating it as witness nonetheless.

Leia spun, her skirt flaring out, and then stopped, her hand clapping to her face to see him there. Han, leaning in the setting sun, his thin-worn white t-shirt and blue jeans that had visibly faded and fitted over the week. He remained still, long arm extended against the weathered wood, his face still too but alight on her, radiating.

She rose on her toes, physical imperative of joy. Leia would have gone to him immediately, but—neither knew if it was the mutual surprise or the new table between them, or the jukebox volume— _three, four, five_ —there was obstruction, suddenly, there. A barrier, not fraught and not painful, but there. It was almost that neither wanted to be disappointed by finding the other to be illusory. A fear of yet more interruption; they were both at their limit with that. Neither could explain, both felt it. So, for a heartbeat, they watched each other through an oasis-filter.

" _Han."_ Thrill zinged through Leia's blood to see him, but then the derailment of her planning crashed through her, boxcars hopping her mental and emotional tracks. All Leia could think of, suddenly, was the circus-pox cake in the kitchen, which she hadn't gotten around to throwing out. And what of this? Suddenly it seemed breathtaking presumption that she had re-ordered Han's private space, with the jukebox and bar fridge and a battered leather couch Carlist Rieekan had got her cheap at the Mantell law library and of course this—what _was_ a pool table, was it furniture?— _object_ that would take five men to move out again, if Han hated it. Would he consider this an invasion, a statement of claim, a reassertion of her ownership of the space, after Leia had ceded it to him?

It had all seemed like such a good idea in the abstract.

Han stepped forward, walking into the shop, to the table, opposite Leia. Trailing the pads of his fingers over the tight, fresh green felt, he whistled, low and awestruck.

"It's for you," Leia said, through her constricted throat. "An antique. I thought—"

She trailed off, so unlike her that Han looked up from his incredible gift. Leia seemed frozen, clutching a cue that Han could see at a glance was completely wrong for her—too heavy, too long. He wanted to kiss her, wondered if he'd ever wanted to kiss her more, wondered how he'd resisted it for the full minute he'd been in her company but Leia, Leia looked so stiff. So afraid of—afraid of failure, like she'd overstepped some border. As though she could!

"It's..." Han shook his head. "This is some piece of slate, Sweetheart." The wood was special too, smooth and curved and simple; the woven, knotted leather pockets; all declared a devotion to craftsmanship that made Han's mouth water. Not to mention the unexpected sight of his wife, leaning over the bumpers, her skin lit like the moon by that deep blue, a blue that made her stunning eyes still richer.

But this idea, that Leia was upset—no, not with him, Han could see in her eyes how happy she was to see him; what she was was upset with herself—came to Han not in conscious thought but as animal reading of her signals. And that instinct told him to walk easy, that there were not words, now, to reassure her. Leia was the word one, anyway, the one that smoothed with articulate truths. He was the physical one, and indeed Han wanted to kiss her, kiss her, kiss her, but Leia held herself as though behind some force field.

The song ended; silence seemed to fall like some glass barrier.

Well, no matter. He could reach her, he always could. Because Han knew Leia wasn't waiting for a prince; she was, as ever, waiting for a challenger.


	5. Chapter 5

Han immediately knew which one he'd use, but he took his time choosing his cue. He took Leia's too, from her grasp, gentle and easy, shake of his head. He slotted it into its spot in the bracket someone had bolted to the wall of the shop. "Good job, that," Han said, keeping his back to Leia, knocking at the perfectly level unit, set to just the right height. "Antilles?"

He could sense her loosening, just slightly, into his approval. "Yes. And Kes did the light. Well of course he did, I guess you know that—"

Now Han felt Leia's spike in frustration with herself and so he let her see what he was doing, gauging cues, knowing the ritual would appeal to her, the chance to choose and to choose right. He hefted cues for evenness of weight, stroking them through his fingers for drag of grain. Rolling the shafts on the felt-covered slate to test for warping. Sighting down the line. They were all in good shape, but Han finally selected a favorite for himself and the best fit for her, nodding.

And Leia nodded unconsciously back as she accepted hers. Began to smile as Han strolled the perimeter of the exquisite table, running his fingers over the timber, letting her see him appreciate it, her full gesture. She didn't want _thank you,_ she wanted to know Han knew she loved him. So as Han collected colored and striped balls from their thatched nets, enjoying their clean, heavy roll on the green, Han projected his love as calm constancy rather than the intense want that burned just beneath.

Leia responded, brightened, blooming under his warmth and pleasure. "Lando found the table at an auction outside Mantell, and we all drove out." She smiled a little ferociously. "I'm very good at bidding."

Fondly, Han snorted. "I bet." He fetched the rack. "Hey, you have a game yet? You and the guys?"

"No," Leia said, fingering her cue. "I wanted to play against you first."

He beamed at the honor, even as he offset this with swagger. "Oh, listen to this: _against_ me. Not _with?_ " Swiftly Han arranged the balls into a diamond within the triangular guide, one through nine, one-ball at the foot, nine-ball at the heart. Spun the triangle cheerfully away. And Han's unforced joy, the sureness and familiarity of his voice and hands—Han was Han, home, himself—made Leia fully relax, relinquish perfection for truth, her spark flaring back.

She _had_ meant "with."

"Against." Leia said, firmly.

Han grinned widely, winsomely, far too innocently at her. "Okay!"

"What?" Leia tossed her ponytail over a shoulder. "You think I don't have the guts?"

Han's eyebrows shot up in delight. "Yeah. _That's_ what I think about Leia Organa. Nice girl, but what a _wimp._ " His eyes bright with admiration, affection.

"Your wife is going to give you trouble, Flyboy."

"I like my trouble just fine. Get over here and break."

Leia shook her head. "You break."

He eyed her, then turned deliberately away, walking unhurriedly to the jukebox. He leaned a hand on the Plexiglas bubble, flipped through the title panels. Leia watched: Han was frowning gently, chewing his lip, considering his options.

"Whaddaya say," Han began, still peering into the workings of the jukebox, "We make this game a little more...interesting?"

"I'm a beginner," Leia said sweetly, neatly chalking her cue.

He grinned back at her over his shoulder, appreciative, disarming. The neon light from the jukebox shaded from purple to red, lending his face a playfully devilish cast. "What are you afraid of?"

"Going broke." Leia gave a rueful sigh. "I hear you're quite the mercenary."

At her allusion Han's smile became affectionate and sly. Turning back to the jukebox, he leaned onto his forearms, eyeing his choices. His broad shoulders shifted in his white t-shirt, cotton worn so soft Leia could glimpse the warm gold of his skin through the weft. The shirt's unravelling hem was carelessly half-caught in the waistband of his Levi's and _those_ —well, those. They'd faded in the industrial heat of the motel's washing machine. And softened, slung just enough but fitted too, faithfully following his frame. Leia inhaled gently. Made a mental note to send the Rogues a thank-you card.

"Well now." Drumming his fingers on the transparent dome, Han watched the metal arm stack records into place with the pleasure effective mechanics always gave him. And then, as Elvis Presley filled the shop with "It's Now or Never," Han turned, slowly approaching the table. "I ain't in it for the money, Princess."

"You're not?"

Leia finished chalking her cue with a pert twist that brought a charmed twitch to Han's lip, quickly hidden. He held her eyes, slowly shook his head. "Nope." Han drew closer, and closer still; he let a hand hover just over the sweet dip of Leia's waist. Not touching, but close enough she could feel the heat of Han's palm on the strip of flesh where her cropped blouse separated from her skirt. Dipping his head, Han pressed his lips to Leia's temple in a soft kiss, the first since his return.

" _That_ one's for luck," he said, low. "The next ones, I'll win."

Leia shivered, but set her chin. "And if _I_ win?"

With a thoughtful rumble, Han stroked Leia's jawline with his nose, eyelashes brushing her cheekbone. She was just lifting her fingers to the back of his neck when Han stepped back.

"If you win?" As he chalked up, Han's grin curved wicked and offset as a fishhook. "That's up to you."

XXXXXXXXXX

Han bent at the end of the table, left arm extended, tip of the cue resting between curved index and splayed middle fingers. Cue in line with the slight groove in his chin. His gaze seemed to shutter, and Leia couldn't help but consider that his singularity was stimulating. Why? Maybe it was unique to Han, his abnormal intensity of focus, his eyes that lupine green.

He did not appear to be doing anything particular—maybe an infinitesimal rock back on his heels, a tension in his broad back or something about his lean hips, as though he were accruing a charge. But then he flexed the slightest bit; if Leia didn't know Han's body so intimately she would have missed the switch of power from body to stick. The diamond shattered with a whip-crack. Down rattled the one-ball, the three, the six. Han unfolded himself, body lazy but eyes busily finding patterns in the explosion, reading what looked to Leia like chaos. Finally he smiled his satisfaction. Gestured with his cue at the left corner pocket. Shot her a look, ruthless and adoring, eyes half-lidded and sparkling; that smirk.

He said, "This is where the fun begins."

XXXXXXXXXX

The first game, Leia didn't shoot at all. Han didn't give her the chance, ran the table, slicing through numbers, angles, swift and sure. Cue ball cutting the two into the eight, high left, and after that it was just one shot to the next. Like points, Leia thought, on a spiderweb, a structure connected by strands, invisible to her but to Han, an underpinning of plans. There was no artifice to Han like this—none of the facade of the day on the dock. Han was cool, efficient; he wanted his bounty of kisses, and most of all, he wanted Leia to know it.

Han put the last ball down, clicked the nine into the side pocket, stroke firm and certain. He dragged his bracing palm back along the felt towards himself as he straightened, eyes gold as medals and never leaving Leia's. He cocked his hip, and waited.

"That was... _pretty good,_ " she conceded.

"Pretty good, huh." Han felt a charge at the familiar words, the honeymoon words, but casually, casually he leaned his cue against the wall and walked to where Leia perched on a high stool.

"C'mon." Han's voice was husky, soft, his face serious. He tapped his generous lower lip. "Aaaaaah. _Come_ on."

Leia stood on the rungs of the stool, bringing herself to rare eye-level. She took his face in her hands and pulled him in, fit her mouth to his, kissing Han Solo with her entire heart, for all the days they'd missed, that she'd missed him. She felt his lips open under hers as his fingers closed in her hair and on her waist, small moan in her throat, one in his. Han stepped closer kissing her so deeply he wrapped an arm around Leia's hips to keep her from tumbling sideways from her perch.

When they finally broke apart for breath they kept their foreheads together, insisting on reunion. Elvis still crooning because Han had run the table so quickly that he'd outlapped the song. They drew farther away, to gaze at one another, their faces tender and grateful and restored. Then Leia nipped at the shallow notch in his chin—twelfth on her list—and tucked her hands into Han's back pockets. Sure enough his eyelids fluttered and he arched closer, uncontrollably.

But as he leaned in to kiss her again, Leia pressed against his chest. "Not so fast," she murmured. "Hustler."

Han smiled so hard his warm amber eyes near-disappeared. With a huffed laugh he placed a palm to his chest as though in stung effrontery, then dropped the routine with a shrug. He knew what he was. Han grazed her cheekbone with his knuckles and stepped away from her. "Go on, then. Rack 'em."

As she collected the balls from their pockets, arranged them in a crude but sufficient diamond, Han leaned on his cue, watching. When she finished Leia looked up and caught her breath to see the heat in Han's eyes.

"This time," Han said, pointing at her, "A kiss a shot."

XXXXXXXXXX

Two balls off the break. Han pulled a droll face, tugging his lips cartoonishly to the side to tauten his opposite cheek, instructively drumming there with a finger as he strutted past. Breathing exasperated laughter, Leia stood on her toes and somehow Han lowered a level without stopping his strut, accepting her two pecks on his way to his next shot. He put another down, one-ball in the side. It was such a simple shot, even Leia knew that, that when Han took her by the chin and kissed her so long, so thoroughly and with such carnal depth it seemed some sort of thrilling banditry.

The three into the seven, he kissed Leia on the forehead. When he put down the three itself, clicking it off the six just as he'd predicted, Han kissed her on the chest. A flicker of tongue just above the low smocked neckline of her blouse, at the cleft of her breasts.

"I earned that," Han claimed, when she gasped in stagy shock. "That was a kiss shot on a kiss shot." He grinned winningly at her when she tossed the chalk at him. "Hey! I don't make the rules."

And then he was stuck—Leia was sure purposely, but Han sold it well, pacing the table in hissing puzzlement. Finally, he scratched his jaw and tucked the cue ball behind the eight, where it could not touch the two she needed.

Leia bent over the table to shoot, then straightened, baffled. Han appeared immediately at her side.

"Need some help?" His purred solicitation was so unbelievable that Leia laughed into her own shoulder.

"What a gentleman."

"Naaah, that's a scoundrel move. C'mere."

Han curved his body around Leia's, covered her hand, on the base of her light cue, with his. His left hand he slotted under her wrist, a base for her aiming. She felt him cock their back arms, like archery. And Leia closed her eyes, where he couldn't see, to feel Han's weight, his sheltering clean heaviness, the heat and closeness that drove everything else away.

"Not too hard. You want control of where it goes."

"Gentle," Leia said.

Han made a thoughtful noise against her back. With him curved over her like that, Leia felt his voice clear through herself, his breath in her hair. "Not gentle so much as—easy. Easy." With her fingers meshed with his he retracted the cue and then pressed clear through into space a few times, and she could feel the difference. Not a lunge but a cool, methodical push. Leia let Han turn her, aim her, set her and together they banked the cue ball so it clicked into the two—it couldn't go down anywhere from the shot he'd left her, but it wasn't a scratch.

Having some delayed crisis of conscience, Han uncoiled from her. "Ah, d'you wanna take a few more shots? I don't mind, we can just mess ar—"

Deliberately Leia turned her back to the table, placed Han's hands on her hips, bade him to lift. And he did, perching her on the sleek wooden edge. Han sighed to see her like that, sighed and tight-closed his eyes as though, Leia thought, she was something that both soothed and inflicted. He leaned into her. "Leia, I—"

She brought a kneecap, ever so gently, to his hard lower belly and pushed him back. "Finish it off."

Han blinked at her, brow rumpled.

"Go on," Leia said, as he'd earlier said to her. And then, with her own slow smile, she settled her weight in her palms, knowing what the arch in her back did to her shape in this thin blouse. Han's eyes flared like an atomic cloud. "Go _on,_ " Leia insisted. "I want to watch."

Han nodded, his face dumbstruck and shaded with lust before it resolved into controlled calm. His face _was_ calm but not so the vein in the column of his arm, not the cord that reported the hard throb of his heart. And Han went back to the table but he lost all his rhythm, the cool sure step from one pattern to the next, the balls going down not with their regular click but at erratic intervals, going down hard, fast. And Han was not shuttered anymore, he was breaking out of that narrow track of concentration, affectingly distracted; his eyes flicking to her, away then back—her face, her eyes, her waist, her breasts. When Han put down the nine with an almost whistling crack Leia could see that his restraint—visible in his hands, his shoulders and long arms, wrists, his thighs and hips—was the only thing that allowed him to release the cue rather than launch it like a javelin. And Han turned, then, returned his hands to Leia's hips, his grip good, hard and tight and pulled her to the edge of the table, pulled her close so they fit and her knees bracketed his ribs.

He pressed his palm to her cheek, smallest finger sweeping under her jaw, and drew her in. He smelled woody, clean salt tang of sweat underneath. This kiss soft, deep, adamant. Leia felt her own fingers twining in the cotton eyelet of her skirt. Her toes curled in her jute espadrilles, and Han stepped closer, nudging her knees wider apart. He ran his hand around to the back of her neck, stroking the tendrils of hair escaping from Leia's ponytail.

"One more game," Leia teased. Han scowled at her so hard she muffled laughter against his shoulder. Han held up a finger. _Fine._

"But _this_ time," Han warned, voice pitched like night, "things come off."

Leia felt a hot rush at his bluntness.

"Whaddaya got, Princess?"

XXXXXXXXXX

Little Richard howled into "Lucille" and his hurricane power manifested on the table: Han hammered the break so hard that even he looked startled. And the nine rattled from its ranks with such force that it rolled for the corner pocket. When it fell Han opened into genuine, broad, thrilled laughter, his head falling back.

"How..." Leia demanded. She hadn't even hopped down from the edge of the table yet.

"I have _never_ done that," Han said, pointing.

"Does that mean—"

"Game over." Han breathed hard through his grin, all breathtaking, joyous cockiness. "Pay up."

Leia settled her blouse lower on her shoulders. "You don't like this?"

"Oh, I like it. A lot. _Take. It. Off._ "

 _She_ liked his subterranean tone. Still Leia smirked, as he came close, defiantly hooking her fingertips into the hem of Han's worn, soft shirt. Slipped one hand beneath the fabric, and felt his skin hot to the touch. Ran the heel of her hand over his flat belly.

"Cheater," Han whispered, his eyes twinkling at her in the last burst of caramel light. But he obligingly lifted his arms, letting her peel his t-shirt from his body, briefly hiding his face. And there was his wedding band, safe against the crinkled hair sprinkling his sternum. Leia tossed his shirt to the floor and watched her hands, splayed her hands on his taut flesh, enjoying the contrast in their tones: hers pale, his already gold. Han's long fingers played over her wrists, caressing, curious. He inhaled sharply when she pressed her lips to his breastbone, looping her index finger through his ring. He looked down at her hand, dangling there, and then at her face, his own quizzical.

Leia tugged. With a half-grin, Han met her mouth, his own hands working at the buttons of her blouse. Mumbling against her lips, "My birthday and I gotta do everything myself—"

She shrugged her unbuttoned shirt off like a vest, baring herself, her naked breasts. His mock-grumbling stopped, Han stared down at her, stunned even at this treasured sight. "Christ." Licked his lips. " _Christ,_ you're—"

Pulling on his ring, Leia cut him off with her mouth. This was a kiss that unfurled. Unfolded under soft, mutual pressure. Somehow their lips, Leia thought, _fit_ together, drew one another out. Independent of their plans for themselves, Han and Leia got close enough and the kiss took over, the pull took over, the seek and yield into one another. Han kissed her as he unzipped her skirt, slipping the cotton from her hips. Brow knit, he watched as she undid his button-fly, more easily this time, and as she worked his jeans and shorts from him with her hands and heels, thrilling to the feel of him against her palm. And as he removed her own last clothing from her Han kissed her seriously and solemnly and roughly and soundly, all the kisses she'd missed. He coaxed with his tongue as he found her with his fingers, spiralling there until Leia almost tumbled backward, but Han controlled her, big hand at the base of her spine. Slowly she relinquished his lower lip, looking at him in question.

Han shook his head. "Not here." Leia raised her brows and he lifted her slightly from the green felt, enough to fit his hand to the curve of her bottom, patting softly. "Burns," he said, almost in apology, as though to avoid even this rejection of her gift.

Scooping Leia up he turned, fast, pressed her to the wall, into once-rough boards he'd sanded to satin. He anchored her just inside the open barn door, close enough to outside that the evening air breathed over their bare skin, carrying the scent of climbing roses. "I had this dream—once, before—" As though he couldn't help himself Han rained attention on her bare breasts that made Leia happily squirm. Then he flashed a hopeful grin, hair dishevelled, breathing uneven. "Day of the race. When I almost...when I came back." It left Han with a lightness, to get that out at last. "Here, you and me, before we ever..."

Her stare was so steady it stopped him. Leia regarded Han, half-lidded, and he looked back. Her eyelashes shading her wonderful eyes, mystery in them even now. Han's own eyes searching, his turn to feel uncertain. And Han thought of—somehow returned to—their first kiss, in this very place, the taut effort it had taken to control himself. Another gift, another kiss. And now Leia, now his _wife_ looked back and her meaning was hidden, veiled, in a way that almost felled Han with lust. Her obscurity highlighted his access. Her distance underscored his closeness. But Han waited on held breath, existing again in that space where anything could happen with Leia Organa.

It was almost as though he'd never kissed her, before—or just had, for the first time, and was awaiting her reaction. Han waited with that much at stake, the intensity and electric risk.

"Okay, Hotshot," Leia said, with such profound calm that it declared a crackling volatility in her, so cool he could sense her well of molten want just beneath. And he smiled back to see this, to feel the power in her stillness, the energy accruing between them, gathering as before the break. Han's tiny smile transformed his face, lit it with joy and relief and heated eagerness and then their mouths vanished in a kiss, Leia moved against him and Han pulled in breath, pulled her kiss almost into himself as she found him, guided him, took him in.

He wasn't talkative and neither was Leia—this was some intent reversal of all their survival conversation over the last lost week apart. Han's eyes on her body, his hands on her body, his mouth on her skin and his weight pinning her to the wooden wall, all said to Leia that he was tired of talking. And so was she. They did not speak. Not when they joined, making them both stop, then shudder in the cooling stream of fragrant air. Not when they began to move, demanding and generous, with one another. There was something about this exact angle that was both new and ideal for Leia, a fresh pressure so powerful that it stole any words she might have used—and Han knew it, too, his rhythm encouraging her urgent welcome of him, his breathing a rough affirmation against her. And even when the craved erasure overtook her, when she dug her fingers into Han's shoulder and hair and even heeled him heedlessly and hard at the base of his spine, her lips opening at his temple, what came to Leia's tongue was not speech but his innate clean flavor.

When it hit her it was so...strong. It was almost too much, almost too good; Leia felt on some primal level that she'd be driven from her body forever. But Leia trusted Han. She trusted him to care for her as she both abandoned and merged with herself, as she both escaped her body and was hyperaware of it. Meeting with the love and heat and desire in his eyes as he watched her arch and cry out. Han adjusted Leia at the last of her tremors, braced her higher and ducked his head to secure his own pleasure. Han finally spoke, then, though Leia couldn't be sure what he said. Just velvety mutterings against her neck, their sexiness inseparable from their insistence, their inscrutability. His voice as secret as the sense of enclosure, violet and gold, the evening light filling the shop. Light so soft and mutable it was counterpoint to his forceful stroke, his rigid grip on her thigh and hip. Han fell out of his own control, his body deciding, dashing him against her until he shook his head and spoke her name, Han prayed his small sweet string of obscenities and her name; moved into her hard, hard again, then broke apart into trembling. And somehow this paradox—the rawness and closeness, or the denial and the surrender—was so sharply felt that it came over Leia as some thrilling aftershock.

"This is _the best,_ " Han groaned, "...fuckin', _birthday..._ "

Leia cut him off, not done yet with her own list of kisses.

XXXXXXXXXX

"In _public,_ Princess," Han marvelled, later, as they curled together on the couch, watching what looked like gathering clouds, black on indigo. Night gradually filling the frame of the barn door. The couch was leather, not cheap or stiff but buttery and deep, not sticking to the skin. Almost a fine cloth, chamois fine and soft as the old white cotton of Han's thin t-shirt, discarded somewhere under the pool table.

"This is private property," Leia said.

"Aha. So I'm a trespasser." Han said this with elaborate, roguish zest, his eyes glinting, his fingers stealing over a pink nipple. Smiling, she shook her head.

"No, you're co-owner."

Han stopped.

"That's what I wanted," Leia said. "For winning, if I'd won the pool game. That's what I." She swallowed. "I know I didn't win. But it _is_ what I want, Han. It's what I've wanted for a long time."

Leia lifted her head to look at him; he tucked his chin to look back.

"And it isn't just your birthday, you know," Leia said, a little hotly. "It's an anniversary—"

Han pressed his lips all around her head like a crown. He hadn't known _she'd_ ever known, ever connected their meeting to his day of birth.

"So I want something too." Leia said, and her face was so damn beautiful, still flushed from coming and mulish, too; the combination did almost painful things to him. "I want you to take half of Alder Glen. Officially, I mean."

"Uh." No matter how stunning she was, how much he loved her Han was about to refuse, about to knee-jerk _refuse_. But then Han thought of two things: how Leia looked when he'd asked her permission to change the shop—almost sick, almost hurt. And the next was how _he'd_ felt, when he realized Leia thought she'd overstepped somehow by getting him the table. The thought of dividing things into his and hers, of drawing lines, felt all wrong. Han scratched his jaw. "Yeah. Alright."

Leia stared, and then her face broke into radiance. Han didn't know if it was relief or joy or the pleasure of being understood, deeply understood by the one you loved best, but she was happy and that was what he wanted. That was all he wanted, he thought as he wrapped his arms around her, pulled Millie's old wool blanket over them as the show of rain began on the big gorgeous screen outside. That was all he wanted, for twenty-five; to lay somewhere alone with his wife, Leia Organa bare in his arms, and think _Goddamn, am I glad to be alive._

"Happy birthday, Han," Leia whispered into his chest.

"Happy anniversary, Princess," Han said back.

"...do you like it?" Leia felt now safe to ask.

Han looked around his orderly, clean, perfectly functional and now newly homey shop, an arm of their shared home, a home full of things to do, to fix, to make and to play with Leia and heaved a huge, relieved, grateful, cleansing breath. _Are you kidding me. Are you—_ a prior life flashed before Han's eyes, the page of a calendar torn loose, and now he could watch it flutter by. July ninth.

"Sweetheart," Han yawned, feeling himself slide into perfect sleep, the sleep he'd missed, immersed in Leia's scent; the sleep of the loved and wanted and embraced. "It's gonna be pretty hard for you to top this."


End file.
